St Jude
by Angel Monroe
Summary: Maybe she was St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes. He was nothing if not that. Pre-Trinity one-shot involving King & Abby.


_A/N: Waiting for_ Definitely, Maybe_ to come out is driving me crazy; therefore, I had to write something. So here's a stupid little one-shot that kept buzzing around my head. The premise is unoriginal and really didn't need to be written again, but it refused to shrivel and die like a good dud. So here it is: King's POV of being rescued the first time._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. To own Ryan Reynolds is my newest ambition in life, but alas…nope. Don't own him either. _

**St. Jude  
by Angel Monroe**

She reached out a hand. "Come with me."

In the dim light of a steel chamber that had been his home for more days than he could tally in scratches on the wall, the woman didn't make any grand speeches or idealistic promises. She didn't tell him that everything would be okay. She just offered her hand and a chance to escape. Still, it was the most unnervingly surreal moment of his life. What _was_ this emotion he was feeling? He'd forgotten the word.

He'd been licking his fresh wounds when the she'd come, and at first he'd thought she was dinner. Danica didn't usually bring him fresh blood until he was desperately famished and too nonsensical to refuse, but sending a woman in for him, especially one who smelled so sweet and looked so deliciously beautiful, would be just sadistic enough to get her off.

Then she'd drawn a gun, and he'd only had one thought. "It's about damn time."

"What was that?" she'd asked, momentarily stunned.

He'd laughed throatily, shifting to his knees in front of her. "Oh come on. Don't tell me you're one of _those_ women. You can't get me all hot and bothered, and then just stop. I've been waiting years to die."

The girl had seemed annoyed and intrigued simultaneously, but the tip of her gun had drooped and with it went any relief he might have felt.

"Please," he'd begged, dropping all bravado in favor of genuine panic, "please just do it. Or just leave me a weapon. I'll do it myself. I don't care, but just don't leave me here alive." If he had to stay there knowing he'd had a chance to get away from it…he didn't know if his psyche could take it.

Her eyes were so hard when she'd looked at him, too hard for the sweet scent that played across her skin. Her voice had had that same edge—cold but velvety smooth. "There's a cure if you want it."

The word hadn't registered for a moment. Cure? Cure for what? His hatred of life, of the world, of every breath he took? Or the agonizing hollowness he felt every time he woke up? Or the gut-wrenching thirst that made every moment of consciousness feel like another step deeper into hell?

Then it had hit him. All of it. She was talking about all of it. He'd stopped breathing.

And now she was standing in front of him, holding out a hand like some kind of knight-in-shining-fucking-armor. Maybe she was St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes. He was nothing if not that.

He tried to think of the word for the feeling that swept through him when his hand met the skin of hers, more calloused than he would have expected. It wasn't relief, not yet. Relief would come if it worked, this cure. The moment he stepped into the sunlight and didn't burn, then the relief would come. But not yet. This was another thing.

"Hold onto me," the woman whispered when he stumbled, "but if I see fang anywhere near my skin, I swear, I'll cut off your legs and leave your ass here, understood?"

He grunted affirmation as she walked him through the door and into the too-quiet hallway. Burning ash remains floated across their path, and he wished he could believe they were Danica's or Asher's, but he'd never been that lucky. They were probably out.

When they emerged into the cool night air, he stopped a moment and waited for the ambush. Waited for the fantasy to end. But then their getaway car pulled around the corner and he felt a pinprick in the side of his neck.

"Hey," he mumbled, looking over at St. Jude when his vision started to swim. "What did you do?"

"It's just a tranquilizer until we get you secured," she said, though her voice was cutting lazily in and out. "You're going to be fine."

A man appeared to take him off her hands, dragging him into the backseat of the suburban and then disappearing again into the driver's seat.

"You're going to be fine," the woman repeated from the passenger seat, looking back at him with those remote eyes of hers. But as he began to fade, his eyelids getting sleep-heavy, he saw just a momentary flash of pity in her expression. And maybe a tiny hint of hope.

Hope. That was the word, the feeling, the long-abandoned emotion. For the first time since he'd been turned, he was hopeful.

_A/N: See, vastly unoriginal. But review it anyway. I eat reviews for breakfast and, like Wheaties, they get me through the day. Besides, with this new movie still two weeks away, I need something to get me through my days. Please? O:-)_


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